


how the kingdom lights shined just for me and you

by floatingsumaru



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Classic Summer Looks For When You're In Love With Your Best Friend, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Popsicles, Practice Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 07:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12406071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatingsumaru/pseuds/floatingsumaru
Summary: A melting popsicle; flavoured chapstick; fireworks in the dark.Three small moments of Iwaizumi and Oikawa having unresolved feelings across different summers.





	1. melting popsicle

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as: You Can't Date Iwa-chan Because You've Been Dating Iwa-chan This Entire Time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer is really hot, Oikawa is eating a rocket popsicle, and Iwaizumi is gay as fuck.

Summers are awful. Iwaizumi maybe loves summers best.

  
  
Oikawa has finally finished the white section of his popsicle to move onto the blue one and Iwaizumi has been painfully hard for almost ten minutes now. Ten minutes of the worst boner he swears he’s ever had in his, quite frankly, rather prolific teenage career of boners, feels like a lifetime when everything is this hot and sweaty and awful.The cicadas are noisy as fuck, and Iwaizumi is pretty sure the street pavement is hot enough to melt through his sneakers, and every time he looks over he wonders if there’s a word to describe the immense anger and regret he feels. Oikawa looks too good with his lips suctioning slowly around the popsicle, his eyes hazy with the heat. Iwaizumi can’t remember when Oikawa became this pretty. Has he always been this pretty. Summer is truly awful and Iwaizumi wants to die, maybe.

  
  
“Melting, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa mumbles around the stupid thing in his mouth as he waves a lazy hand at the neglected popsicle that Iwaizumi is holding, and the way his damp bangs stick to his forehead despite the little mint hairclip that pins them back makes Iwaizumi want to either jump into the goddamn ocean or grip that little wild tuft of hair that’s sticking straight up and...  _and what_. He’s never even kissed anybody in his entire goddamn life. Iwaizumi stares straight ahead. They’re sitting on the curb by the corner store under the sparse shade of a single, sad looking tree, and Iwaizumi is glad for the way he can spread his knees and let the loose fabric of his shorts drape carefully.

  
  
He takes a careful lick of his popsicle and tries to think of it only as a popsicle. “Shut up, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi grunts half-heartedly. Sweat sticks to the inside of his thighs and everything feels too tight and the inside of his boxers are damp with all kinds of things he doesn’t want to think about, either. Iwaizumi is somewhere between miserable and in love. It’s probably the same thing at this point, and  _god_ , it’s fucking hot today. There’s a droplet of sweat that’s making its slow, careful slide down the side of Oikawa’s neck, and Iwaizumi can’t stop staring at the elegant arch of his best friend’s throat, and he settles on the feeling of being completely miserable. Completely in love.

  
  
“So are you even going to eat that at all,” Oikawa asks as he finishes his popsicle with one last suck. “Or can I have it.” His mouth is pink from the red section of the popsicle and his tongue is now bright blue, and Iwaizumi doesn’t think he can get any hotter in this dumb stupid idiot summer heat, but the moment he idly wonders if the blue on Oikawa’s tongue would rub off on sweat-slicked skin, he feels himself flush red and burning hot all the way down into his chest.

  
  
Oikawa’s eyes narrow. “Iwa-chan,” he smiles, and that smile is so sweet and sharp and knowing, Iwaizumi wants to just punch him right in between those beautiful summer heat eyes. “You can share with Oikawa-san you know.” Oikawa slowly touches his blue tongue to his pink lips and looks him right in the eye.

  
  
Iwaizumi just glares right back, and burning hot, sticks the remainder of his popsicle into his mouth all at once. 

 

 


	2. plain boring vanilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't practice kissing with your best friend unless you mean it.

Oikawa spreads the ten small plastic tubes across his desk; the afternoon light lances across his face, summer gold on his cheek, warm shadows over his eyes, "Pick a favourite, Iwa-chan," Oikawa says. His smile is sharp, and it's sweet, and it's the bad idea kind of inviting that Iwaizumi has always followed after since they were young.

 

"I didn't even know you could get more than one kind of chapstick," Iwaizumi grunts instead. He's trying not to look at Oikawa's mouth. It's already red and plump -- cherry, applied too much. Iwaizumi can almost taste the waxy, fake taste of it in the air between them. He kinda hates it.

 

"Cherry, strawberry, mint, orange, chocolate, vanilla," Oikawa winks at Iwaizumi when he says that last one, tongue poking pink and wet between his lips, "That's probably your favourite, right, Iwa-chan. My boring, plain Iwa-chan."

 

Iwaizumi is going to kill him, probably. “Just get on with it, Shittykawa.”

 

Oikawa leans over the desk and the low light shifts against his hair, lights him up from behind like a thing that crowns him, and Iwaizumi feels long fingers curling tight against his shoulders. The hands are almost cruel in their grip, and he thinks the mouth is going to be the same; but Oikawa is soft. Oikawa’s lips are so feather light against his he barely feels them at all and Iwaizumi can’t help the way he leans forward for more. He thinks he wants more. He kinda hates that, too.

 

“Girls don’t like it when you’re rough with them,” Oikawa breathes against his mouth, and Iwaizumi definitely hates that, wants to kiss every stranger off of Oikawa’s mouth until it’s just his, plain vanilla, boring, basic, whatever Oikawa wants him to taste like. Iwaizumi doesn’t have a favourite flavour; he doesn’t know which one is Oikawa’s.

 

“What would you know, all your girlfriends have broken up with you.” Iwaizumi adds for good measure, “Shittykawa.”

 

“You’re still here, aren’t you,” Oikawa leers. It matches the fake red of his lips.

 

“Yes,” Iwaizumi replies simply, and he’s the one leaning in for a kiss now. His hands are the ones that are gentle, clumsy movement and hesitance as they alight in the brown wave of Oikawa’s hair, like he’s scared his touch will give everything of himself away; his mouth is the thing that’s rough, biting into the fullness of Oikawa’s lip, wet and hot and angry and just. Just. Anger roils in his stomach and he’s hot with it, with Oikawa red on his mouth, with Oikawa tasting like wax and that ache he always feels when he’s around him these days.

 

“That’s enough practice for today,” Oikawa pants, shaky as he looks at Iwaizumi, and Iwaizumi knows he’s never been good at hiding anything from Oikawa at all.

 

 


	3. fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't see the stars in Tokyo but Iwaizumi finds a way.

“ _Someone_  is gonna lose a hand,” Oikawa sing-songs with glee. He jabs Iwaizumi in the ribs just in case he wasn’t being clear enough.

  
  
“Guess you’ll have to jack me off from now on then,” Iwaizumi grunts as he presses his back into the rickety metal fence to avoid him; it pings cheerfully in the cool evening air like a titter between them. Oikawa’s fingertips are calloused and warm and they’re like twin points burning a hole right through his thin tshirt and into his skin. It feels almost like a lifetime and hundreds of kilometres since Iwaizumi has been sixteen, but in this sad little patch of grass and gravel behind Oikawa’s apartment complex in what passes for a lawn in Tokyo, with barely any of the white moonlight reaching them for all the street light spilling yellow and fluorescent over the concrete walls, Iwaizumi feels young all over again. He feels unsteady in everything except the way Oikawa is sitting so close and warm to him.

  
  
Oikawa scrunches up his nose. “Lewd, Iwa-chan. When did you become so gross? When did my pure innocent Iwa-chan become Pervy-chan.”

  
  
“You’re twenty years old. Don’t tell me you’ve never touched your own dick, Shittykawa.” The packet of matches have slipped to the bottom of his overnight bag, but with Oikawa poking him repeatedly with those long stupid annoying fingers of his, Iwaizumi is just about ready to fucking lose it. Are you even allowed to punch a sick person? Maybe today was the day Iwaizumi was finally going to find out.

  
  
“Wouldn’t you like to watch,” Oikawa leers, eyes narrow; like they haven’t spent countless training camps away together. Like this weekend wasn’t one of those things they don’t really talk about.

  
  
Oikawa’s voice is still stuffy from being sick, but his eyes aren’t bright with fever anymore, and if nothing else he looks perfectly comfortable pretzel-contorted onto the plastic lawn chair, long legs tucked under the three blankets that Iwaizumi had been careful not to let touch the dirt churned into mud from the evening rain. The skies had finally cleared tonight, but it had already been too late -- they had missed the meteor showers that had streaked brilliant and wondrous across the clear country skies in Miyagi, that Oikawa had been too sick to travel for. So here Iwaizumi had come instead, with his overnight bag and his single packet of matches and his too-young stupid idiot heartbeat pounding like thunder in his ears.

  
  
“Got ‘em,” Iwaizumi says instead, hand closing around the packet of matches that had fallen inside the pages of his physics notebook. “Enjoy your shitty stars, Shittykawa.”

  
  
A swipe against the strip. A flare in the dark. Fireworks.

  
  
Everything smells of sharp yellow sulfur and the deep green scent of earth after rain as he hands the lit sparkler to Oikawa, Oikawa who doesn’t even snipe at his lackluster insults; but what Iwaizumi will remember most on the train he takes back to Miyagi the next day is the way Oikawa had smelled of clean white soap and summer showers and something that no matter how far Iwaizumi has to travel, it will always be the smell of  _home_.

  
  
“Light another one, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa commands, and his smile is so open and happy as he watches the sparkler burn down in his palm, Iwaizumi does exactly what he says without hesitation.

 

 


End file.
